Have you ever been to Mexico?

There is a guy at my work named Oscar. Oscar - a Spanish name. The first part pronounced "oh" not "ah" and the last part pronounced "scar" not "sker". This is his name. Difficult to remember for a lazy Kentucky tongue.

OH-scar is shorter than me, as are all of the Mexicans at work. He is my younger brother's age, with a spikey hip hair-do, sports robes of ENYCE or ROCAWEAR. Bobs his head and twists his hips as he walks down the street to the reggatone and cumbria tunes he has downloaded on his MP3 player. Still a tad bit shy with his English.

My friend Rachel walks next to him as the tired Sardi's crew heads toward the train. We are American, Mexican, Ecuadorian, Bengali, Irish. Segundo says he likes "Raquel" because, "She is my size." She tells the group of the music she used to listen to when she spent a recent summer in Mexico. She has never met Oscar before. She is trying to explain this music to him and he is having trouble understanding her, or he is too involved with the guitars in his headphones. So she says, "Well, have you ever been to Mexico?"

His mouth drops. His dark eyes are squinting, searching hers to see if she is serious or if she is joking, but she just waits for his response with innocence skirting around her pupils.

I laugh out loud. I love my friend's unassuming nature in that simple question. A shorter, brown young man who speaks Spanish and is on his way to a Mexican dance club is not necessarily Mexican. She does not pre-define him; does not reckon his ethnicity.

What would the world be like if we all allowed others to define themselves rather than sticking our own presumptuous lables on them?